What were they talking about—Dragonfly and Hadria? The distance between them didn’t feel like space; it felt like a secret.
Was Hadria asking about the men in White Wood? Were they polished and charming? Did they court her beneath lantern-lit trees, speak poetry in drawing rooms, offer her gifts meant to be unwrapped slowly? Had she kissed any of them? Missed any of them?
Would she even tell Hadria those details? Or had she already?
Their friendship had always seemed impenetrable to outsiders. Collin had watched it grow since they were children—an unlikely, defiant thing. Montigo had chosen companions for his daughter carefully: daughters of stewards and captains, girls with groomed manners and spotless reputations. And somehow, in the middle of that curated circle, Dragonfly had emerged—not polished, not pedigreed, and never, ever tame.
No one knew why she’d been chosen. But Hadria had clung to her like gravity. Despite the nurse’s clucking disapproval and the tutors’ stiff corrections, the girls had become inseparable—two halves of something larger than either of them.
Dragonfly came from nothing. Her family name carried no honor, only rumor. Her father’s wages—when he found work—barely kept food on the table. Her mother had been whispered about behind shutters, slipping from scandal to scandal until she left entirely. After her father died, it was an aunt who took the girls in—scraping order from the wreckage of neglect.
Yet none of that seemed to matter to Hadria.
Collin sometimes thought that the fierce loyalty between them was forged not despite their differences, but because of them. Hadria had given Dragonfly access to a world of ballrooms and court etiquette. And Dragonfly, in turn, had dragged Hadria out into the woods and taught her how not to flinch.
He remembered seeing them by the lake when he was younger—Hadria nervously edging toward the water while Dragonfly dove in without hesitation. The nurse hovered nearby, wringing her hands while the girls burst into laughter, soaked and mud-streaked and alive in ways no etiquette tutor could ever have prepared for.
They were opposites. Mirror images. One born to privilege but taught courage; the other hardened by hardship, yetunshakably generous with her fire. Where Hadria once wept at the sight of a dead bird, Dragonfly was already cleaning fish with her bare hands. One had learned bravery from books, the other from bruises.
It was Dragonfly who helped Hadria disappear the first time—who smuggled her knives and clothes, who lied to guards and placated stewards. She was the one who told Collin and Aries that teaching Montigo’s daughter to hunt wasn’t just a favor—it was a necessity. And when the boys hesitated, it was Dragonfly who stood before them with unwavering eyes and asked them to trust her.
She had always known what Hadria needed.
Just as now, Collin knew—without understanding how—that she was saying something important out there in the dark. Something she wasn’t saying to anyone else.
And it stung, how badly he wanted to be the one she trusted like that.
The late morning sun brought no reprieve from Collin’s anxieties, only a different kind of waiting. Noon had come and gone.
More than an hour later, still no captains, no stewards, not even a single guard appeared in the square. The crowd shifted restlessly beneath the harsh spring sun. Whispers swirled—nervous speculation turned communal: reevaluations, indecision, impossible rankings. Good signs? Bad ones? No one knew, but everyone had a theory.
“They probably all overslept,” Nic muttered, shielding his eyes with one hand. “Wouldn’t be the first time my future was delayed by someone’s second nap.”
Aries gave a slow, exasperated nod. “Or maybe they’re just arguing over which of us is the least disappointing.”
Collin didn’t look up. “They’ll probably just post a sign that says‘Everyone failed.’Save us the suspense.”
The hum built slowly into a relentless thrum—low and anxious, like a wasp’s nest disturbed. It seeped into his marrow, made skin prickle and breath come shallow.
Collin sat on a sunbaked bench, sweat gluing his shirt to his spine. He tried to ignore the rising tide of nervous chatter, smoothing his hair pointlessly, his hands damp with sweat. He shut his eyes, willing the world into quiet—but all it did was make the discomfort louder. His ears burned. His stomach twisted. Hunger, probably. Or dread. Maybe both.
“I’m starving,” he muttered.
“Me too,” came Aries’s gravelly reply. He dropped onto the bench with a tired sigh and nudged Collin’s shoulder.
Collin scooted over, making room on the other side for Dragonfly if she wanted it. He hunched forward, elbows on his knees, pressing his palms to his queasy belly as if he could coax it into silence.
A young woman stood nearby, her back to them, hips swaying idly. Her skirt rippled as she rocked side to side, as though she heard music no one else could.
Lekyi slid into the open spot beside Collin and leaned in with a conspiratorial whisper. “Trying to distract yourself too?”
Collin gave the faintest nod. His gaze had wandered there—but only distantly. Distraction, not desire. The motion was simply...mesmerizing, like leaves rustling just before a storm.
Lekyi smirked and tilted his chin toward Aries.
Collin glanced over. Aries was staring at the same woman with a blank, almost reverent expression.
Collin felt marginally less guilty.
